


The Protege

by InediblePeriwinkle



Category: Henry Stickmin Series (Video Games)
Genre: Copperright is domestic and background, M/M, talks of scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28951713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InediblePeriwinkle/pseuds/InediblePeriwinkle
Summary: Right watches Reginald try to instill some of his wisdom into the Third-of-Command, but he's always been bad at personal connections. The two are so similar, Right often worries exactly who Sven will pick as his Second-in-Command once he's Toppat Chief. Who you pick means all the difference in the world. He should know.
Relationships: Burt Curtis/Sven Svensson, Reginald Copperbottom/Right Hand Man
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	The Protege

**Author's Note:**

> A little soft fic for you. The Toppats get too much angst sometimes.

“I would have- at least six times over- killed you by now, you have got to pay attention!” 

Right scratched the back of his neck, absently, staring impassively at the two on the mats. 

Reginald was pissed. He was quivering, Right could see that from here, nearly frothing in absolute fury as Sven more or less ignored his boss to glare down into his bottle of water. 

Little Svensson looked over at him, through sweaty blond bangs, telegraphing to Right that he was Absolutely Not Sorry and wasn’t about to indulge the Chief like he ordinarily did.

Right shook his head at him slightly. He wasn’t going to take Sven’s side, of course, but the Toppat Leader was getting a little heated. Maybe it was best to give him a break. 

“Oi, Reg.” 

Reginald’s gaze flit to his Right Hand Man without turning. 

Right jerked his head slightly, arms still crossed over his chest, and he watched Reginald war with himself. 

He pushed up the brim of his hat, letting Reginald get a good look at the expression on his face. Reginald’s shoulders dropped, expression souring. But he did end up walking over. 

“Y’er pushin’ too hard,” Right told him once he was close enough. “He’s about to walk off on ya.” 

“He better fucking not.” 

Reginald paused to gulp down water and Right reached over to stop that nonsense right away. 

“If he can’t break holds _I_ have on him, he’s going to be murdered the second he steps up to the role,” Reginald held his water out of Right’s reach, maintaining rather intense eye contact. “Right, this child is going to fucking die.” 

Both the men looked over at the Third-in-Command who was sullenly staring out the private gym’s false windows, a jittering influx of soft light to simulate early daylight. 

Sven’s talents did not lie in physical strength. Like Reginald, he relied too heavily on weaponry, which worked well in far distances. Get an actual hired hitman close, though, someone who knows how to disarm, and. Well. 

“Yeah, that’s cute,” Right told his partner, going back to leaning against the wall. “Y’know you’ve been lucky to have me.” 

Reginald’s lip twitched. 

In his soaked tshirt, Right could see the marks rippling up and down Reg’s arms, the heavy scarring on his hands that belied the nerve damage underneath. 

“I am not disputing that, darling,” Reg interrupted his thoughts. “Love. My sweet. I’m saying _he has no Enforcer and he is going to get himself killed._ ” 

Right tore his gaze away from his elegant fingers to his steelish eyes, cold and direct as always. 

“I am not a tall man,” Reginald told his husband, “I am not muscled. I’m not even fit, and for the past hour he’s struggled to get himself out of a wrist grab. _After_ I’ve shown him how to do it! It’s like he’s not even trying!” 

The current Enforcer surveyed the blond Elite. 

He was not what Right would consider tall, but he was taller than Reg. More lanky where the other was compact, rail-thin where Reg had pudge. He looked like a good gust of wind could whisk him away. He looked like Right could break one of his wrists by accident. 

Sven raised his pale eyes to sullenly meet Right’s gaze again. He looked like a pouting child. 

Right turned back to his husband. “Want me to talk to ‘im?” 

“Would you, darling?” Reginald lips twisted, the twitch back in his face. “I’m about ready to smack him upside his stupid head.” 

“Mnh,” Right kissed the man on the forehead. “Pretty sure I have to report that.” 

“Fuck you,” Reginald said affectionately. “Beat some sense into that boy.” 

Right shook his head at him, walking over to the mat where Sven was having his solo sorry-party. 

“I am trying,” Sven said coldly before the Enforcer even got to the mat. “He is taking this all too far.” 

Right looked down at the boy, all angles and no muscle, and didn’t doubt that his spry, underhanded husband could find a way to beat him. But. That was part of it.

“Y’should be takin’ this seriously,” He warned him. “He’s not tryin’ to get under y’er skin, Sven.” 

Which may very well be a boldfaced lie, you never knew with Reg. 

“I’ll have bodyguards,” Sven still looked sulky. “I will pick a decent Enforcer and this is wasting time anyhow. I am trying and it is not working and we need to move on.” 

Right raised his eyebrows. “You’ll make a pretty poor Leader with that sort’ve thinkin’, won’t ya?” 

He ignored Sven’s offense and instead crouched, knees creaking, to look that boy right in the eyes. 

Offense melted into wariness, nervousness, a typical expression of Sven’s. The skin around his eyes and mouth was purplish, he looked exhausted, and he also looked incredibly frustrated. 

Right inhaled, slowly, exhaling it in a quick gust from the bottom of his lungs. 

“I’ve seen Reg escape things I couldn’t’ve stopped before they got to ‘im,” He told Sven gently. “‘S’our job to keep you safe, yeah, but we aren’t omniscient. Even if y’er safety is our job, we don’t know what we’re gonna see one day or the next.” 

Sven shifted. “Listen, I’m not trying to be disruptive, I’m just not-”

“Nah, y’er bein’ cranky, just like him in that way, eh?” 

“I am _not_.” 

Right chuckled to himself, checking over his shoulder for his husband. Reginald was gone, likely showering and switching clothing so they could start the rest of their day. The Enforcer turned back around, wrists over knees, expression turning serious. 

“You’ve seen the scars on Reg’s hands,” Right told him quietly, “Arms, legs. Y’think I wasn’t there for most of ‘em?” 

Sven’s hands balled into fists. 

“N’anyway, Reg didn’t pick me to be a fancy bodyguard,” Right rolled the ends of his moustache between his fingers. “He trusted me. ‘N I made sure I kept him safe however I could. Don’t pick muscles. Pick someone y’trust to keep ya alive.” 

Sven’s lips pressed into a tight smile. “Decent advice.” 

“I know.” 

Sven looked out the false windows, brows furrowed, and Right decided the boy had enough to think about for now. 

He reached over and ruffled his hair, earning a truly scandalized look. 

“Be easy on Reg,” He echoed his advice to Reg himself, “He’s tryin’ his best for you.” 

“I’d rather he didn’t,” Sven muttered, but he doubted he was supposed to hear that. 

Right stood, jaw set against the sensation in his joints from the action. Here came Reg, anyway, and the man could hear a fly land on the opposite wall. No secrets from Reginald Copperbottom. 

The man set his hat on his head, expression still cool, but Right could see the pity in the way he carefully worded his demands. 

“Go shower,” Reginald told his successor, “We have to pick something up on the way back to the wing, so be quick if you can.” 

Sven picked himself up, not responding but not arguing, and Reginald pretended not to notice and instead walked to his husband. 

“I’m already tired,” Reginald told his partner wryly, “I’m going to make him do some real work today. A couple sub-divides of our dear airship are due for surprise inspection, don’t you think?” 

Right adjusted his husband’s hat carefully, so he could better see his face. 

“Going to make him suffer, mm?” 

“Hardly,” Reginald stood still for the adjustment, leaning up for a kiss at the end of it. “He could stand a little more confidence, though. He’d be brilliant if he wasn’t so annoyingly awkward in authority, getting people to do as he says is a strong point.” 

“Not sure makin’ him go around telling his friends what to do is endearin’ him to anyone, Reg.” 

“Yes, well.” Reginald smoothed his moustache, staring blankly somewhere over Right’s shoulder. “Those of us at the top don’t really get to have friends, my love.” 

Well. There was truth in that. 

Sven walked back in a rather unkempt mess, but Right poked Reginald in the back before he could say anything about it. The two were chilly but polite to one another, and honestly Right was ready to toss them both off the airship. 

For all their differences, Sven and Reginald were incredibly similar. Right walked behind them, the ever-present shadow, expression coolly blank as they stopped by and scared the shit out of various Head of Divisions present at their little home. 

Both boys had been born into the Clan, to Elites, had been orphaned by an event happening in service to the Toppats. Both were proud, popular, well-mannered and raised as gentlemen, unfailingly polite in a way that would stab you in the back the second you turned. 

Right often wondered if Reginald had taken to Sven because of that. Saw this as a way to prove he wasn’t like Terrence, could actually respect those he deemed worthy, could mentor someone without trying to kill them or send them off to be killed. 

Which, for the record, Right was very proud of him for. 

Yes, they were eerily similar. But where Reginald had a flaunting persona, one glittering in gold and sneers and ‘I-do-what-I-wants’, Sven wore his self-deprecation like a severely depressed coat instead of trying to hide it behind flamboyance. Sven was far more likely to be dejected probably because he was a bit shit at faking emotions. He was brutally honest, and Right knew that had earned him a great amount of following, but it was also dangerous. 

Reginald’s long sleeves hid much from the world. His gloves helped protect his numb hands from injury, his golden pendant was long enough to rest over the most brutal scar on his chest. His civility hid a chilling paranoia, a penchant for burning bridges before others could, a wild and unstable personality given full power. 

While Reg did a decent job holding that all back, he’d relied heavily on Right to help. And help he had. He hadn’t been joking when he said Sven had to pick carefully. If he couldn’t mask his own emotions, he needed someone who could help him smooth over fumbles and inadequacies before they could be taken advantage of. 

“What the hell is that face for?” 

Right looked over from giving Geoffrey Plumb a glaring side-eye. But no, Reginald wasn’t talking to him, he was staring at Sven, who mumbled something in response. 

Sven didn’t mumble. You couldn’t get the guy to shut up half the time. Reg sent an incredulous look over at Right, almost oddly annoyed, and hung back as Sven kept walking. 

“I’m not being pushy,” Reginald went immediately for the defense, “I’m being _extremely_ patient...Let the boy work.” 

Right nodded politely to the Secretary to Communications, one of the Johnsonites, and the trio passed into the main office where dozens of Toppats were in communication to those out in the field or in surrounding bases. 

Reginald walked in step with Right, behind Sven enough that those working had a moment to glance at Sven before they immediately tensed at the sight of the Chief and his Right Hand Man. 

Both stood, silent and stoic, leaving a poor, nervous Sven to head the front of it all. The boy looked like he was sweating again. 

“Inspection,” He said shortly, hands clasped behind him so tightly his knuckles were white. “Is Curtis in?” 

Curtis _was_ in, stepping out of his private office so quickly Right heard something fall from behind the door before it was even closed. The Head of Communications was standing tall, and though he walked in a collected pace, he seemed bizarrely less dispassionate than usual. 

Right took one look at Sven’s face and that was all the confirmation he needed. 

“Morning, Chiefs,” Curtis greeted the two farthest with a nod first, and gave Sven his own. “Svensson.” 

The tight hold of Sven’s shoulders made him look like a rubber band about to snap. “Curtis.” 

“Curtis,” Reginald greeted as well, something darkly smarmy coloring the words. 

Right looked over at him. The man looked utterly pleased with himself. 

So he’d already known then, eh? 

“I need these select files pulled for me,” Sven handed the man a list without looking him in the eyes. “Along with your transcripts from this morning’s raid in the Netherlands. Also, you are out of dress code.” 

Right saw Sven’s eyes flit to the man’s tight tshirt stretching over muscle, drifting down to his ripped jeans. 

Right tugged down the brim of his hat, trying to mask his smirk. 

“Oh, weird,” Burt Curtis drawled lazily. “I must’ve gotten dressed in the dark. It happens sometimes, Boss.” 

Sven’s ears were turning red. “Svensson is fine, please get me the files.” 

Reginald was arm-to-arm with Right, meaning he could feel the silent laughter the shorter man was concealing. 

Curtis didn’t notice, or else wasn’t bothered, busy offering Sven a crooked sort of smile. “Sure, whatever you want. I’ll get those files for you.” 

“Thank you,” Sven said stiffly, hands back behind his back, and Reginald tapped Right on the shoulder with a thumb. 

It was their signal for ‘follow me’, and though he was a bit reluctant to leave the show, he obediently followed until they were back in the hallway. 

“I think he’ll probably find his own way to breakfast now, don’t you, love?” Reginald was saying, striding down the hall in a much better mood. “I get the idea that Curtis won’t let him eat alone.” 

Right’s grin damn near split his face. “How long’ve you known about this?” 

“Long enough,” The Toppat Leader said smugly. “I’m glad you back up my suspicions.” 

Kind of hard not to. 

“Are they even suspicions at this point, Reg?” 

A gloved hand reached for his, lacing their fingers neatly. 

“Unconfirmed,” Reginald said lightly, “But I wanted you to see. Honestly, he could do worse.” 

True. If Sven was thinking of making Burt his Enforcer, that wasn’t something he’d argue with much. 

Curtis stood a solid two inches over Right himself, a height only bested by Howie in Scouting, and was the sort of broad you got from being a bored gym rat. 

“He’s not much for fightin’,” Right reminded Reg. “He’s muscle with no combat. We picked him up, Reg, he doesn’t have any training.” 

Reginald Copperbottom looked over, steel-grey eyes crafty and dark. His smirk was knife-sharp, something conniving and cruel and Right should have seen this coming. 

“Fucking-” Right muttered under his breath, “ _Reg_.” 

“Look, love, you said it best,” Reginald’s hand squeezed his, “He needs to pick someone he trusts. And I happen to know for a fact that Curtis would drop anything on the planet for that boy.” 

“But me, Reg?” 

“You’ll be a wonderful mentor,” The Chief brushed his moustache with his free hand, “Better than I’m doing. And it helps you’re similar body types.” 

Something sparked in Right’s brain and lit it on fire. 

“Yeah.” 

He stared at Reginald, at this shorter man, prideful and well-mannered and born of Toppat Elites, who’d fallen in love with a muscled man older than him that the Clan had just picked up, one day, and promptly risen to the Head of his Division. 

Right stared at Reg, who walked on like he hadn’t had this epiphany, this final proof on how in some ways, Sven was a blond and pasty reflection of the man himself. 

“Strange, isn’t it?”


End file.
